


though honestly, sir, all i wanna do is get naked in front of you

by freshbaguette



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (hannibal voice) i'm dropping hints that i'm a cannibal, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Art History, Art Museums, Figure Drawing, M/M, Vanitas Painting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25488601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshbaguette/pseuds/freshbaguette
Summary: “Isn’t life more important?” Will chooses his words slowly, carefully, “Than something pretty, or—or something that exists for momentary pleasure?”“That which exists beautifully, however transient, begets life.”“Even if it’s dead?”“Perhaps because it is dead,” Hannibal says, and Will can hear the smile in his voice, “Man derives pleasure from being master over death. Why should that macabre pleasure not conflate with beauty?”In which Will Graham is a nude model, Hannibal Lecter is a portrait artist, and both of them consider discussions of death tantamount to foreplay.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 26
Kudos: 156





	though honestly, sir, all i wanna do is get naked in front of you

Will wants him out.

He watches the man from the corner of his eye, watches him watching his nude body, and feels a spark of vulnerability creep up through his stomach to his throat. The man is middle-aged, but that qualifier doesn't do justice to the regality of his posture, his dress, his unperturbed and confident expression. He has a face carved from marble—ghostly silver-blonde hair, swept back to cut an even harsher cheek and jaw. Upon sneaking a closer glance at him, Will notices a refined rhythm in the way he glances up and down, up and down, hand flowing gracefully across newsprint regardless of where he's looking. When he stares at Will's body, it's as if he's dissecting him, and even when he turns his attention to the page, Will can feel the echoes of his incisions, cut across abdomen and bicep, neck and calf. 

If Will angled his line of sight in the opposite direction, the image would stand lurid even in comparison to his regular imaginations, impaled like a freshly sharpened knife in his mind. His presence echoes ceaselessly through his thoughts, the man a living earthquake, threatening aftershocks after each interaction.

The moderator finally calls time, and Will lurches upright, popping kinks out of his shoulders and neck, propping his elbow on his opposite knee to crack his back. Will tries not to notice how the marble-cut man never stops staring at him, still drawing even as Will moves his limbs to shake the feeling back into them, to stand and slip off the table now it’s the end of the session. Some patrons enjoy drawing in between poses, capturing the body in flight with sweeping strokes of charcoal. This feels different, more disconcerting. Instead of referencing active anatomy, it's as if the man is watching Will personally, with a keen and piercing eye.

Will can feel the dregs of his gaze clinging onto him even as he returns to the closet to dress. He comes to the studio because he’s found there’s nothing more still than the mind of an artist. There’s nothing buried in their thoughts, no blood and guts and gore, only pure creativity, focus on form, the desire of beauty. They stare at him, but they aren’t seeing him, and Will likes it that way. He’s halfway done buttoning his shirt, ready to go home and forget about the whole ordeal, when he hears it. 

“Would you like to see what I’ve drawn of you?” And the marble face comes with a marble voice.

Will turns and twists his scowl into a more neutral expression. “I tend not to look at what the patrons draw.”

“Why is that?” Folding of the hands, a deceptively pleasant gaze.

“I can already see it. Whoever comes here knows how to draw well enough, and I have mirrors at home,” Will says, abrasively, but doesn’t mention he can also see each artist’s idiosyncrasies. Reads them in the twitch of their brow, the loosening of their jaw. He’s familiar with frustration over rendering foreshortened hands, visualizes the racing stripe of black that represents his spine, can almost see how tightly hatched the shadows under his chin are, each artist bringing slight but meaningful variations to his body.

“A shame. Would you humor me and take a look anyway?”

And because something in his voice makes it sound like that’s not a question, Will finishes the last buttons and takes the proffered drawings. Anything to end this conversation, he thinks.

He almost drops them. There's an arrogance to the lines, sharp and clean, swaths of shadow precisely demarcated against bright whites. But beyond his enigmatic marksmanship, Will sees his own body modified here and there, a ram's skull for his head, or antlers erupting from his temples and spreading across the page like black blood, or his muscle and bone outlined as if he's in a medical textbook. Though he's fully clothed, he feels more naked than he's ever felt modeling. He’s both horrified and drawn in. He looks up to see the man's eyes still on him, ever on him, watching and waiting for a response.

Others might label his gaze terrifying; Will's mind, unbidden, falls on _beautiful_. He’s never thought of another man as beautiful before, the adjective reserved for women, safety in their curves and sweet smiles and bright makeup. Hannibal is all high cheekbones and strong jaw, a dangerous beauty about him that leaves Will struggling to form words. 

After a pregnant pause, the man says, "You like them. You can keep them."

Will glances down at the signature, mystery man's name sloping across the bottom right hand corner as elegantly as the rest of his lines. "Oh no, Hannibal, I couldn't," but that's not the truth, is it? Because he can—he's just terrified of how much he likes them. Will could drown in the deepest shadows, could let himself be consumed by the charming strokes of his facial features.

Hannibal smiles knowingly. "An artist's life is very infrequently rewarding. But we continue to do what we do because the rare beauty we encounter is so exhilarating that it makes every preceding sacrifice worth it."

"Either you're a philosopher, or that was the most esoteric flirt I've ever heard,” Will says, hoping he sounds braver than he really feels.

"Why not both?"

"Why me?"

"I see how intently you watch those who draw you. There is something enigmatic that occurs in your mind. Perhaps you really do see what the artists around you put to paper, even without mirrors."

"So what are you flirting with me for? My body or mind?" If this is a game, Will’s playing.

Hannibal simply smiles at that. _Why not both?_

"I've never seen you around the studio before," Will ventures.

"As you inferred, I was something adjacent to a philosopher. I used to practice psychiatry, and only recently retired to pursue portraiture full-time."

"So you're brushing up on your basics."

"There is something deeply attractive about a base to which we can come back time and time again."

"That base being me?"

"If you'd allow it, yes, Mr…" Hannibal pauses and looks at Will imploringly. 

"Graham. Will Graham. And, yeah, I mean, I'm here at the same time every week," Will says without thinking, then kicks himself internally when he realizes he's invited this man to stare at him for an hour in a way that twists his insides in strange fashions.

"Excellent. Until next time, Will."

Will is left watching Hannibal's back recede, his dark figure fading away into the hallway like an insidious liquid at low tide, his sketches clutched so tightly they've crumpled in Will's hands. 

* * *

Hannibal makes good on his promise. He’s there next week, and the week after that, and the week after that, always waiting for Will after the session with his hand outstretched. If he notices that Will always lets the brush of their fingers linger a second too long, he doesn’t mention it.

Will’s eyes drift over his own meticulously rendered muscles. “Did you go to med school for anything other than psychiatry?”

“I used to be a surgeon. After that came the psychiatry, and now, the art.” 

“Why’d you stop?”

“I was killing people.” Hannibal lowers his gaze. “Or so it felt like it.”

“Well, you can’t save everybody who comes into your care.” He’s struck with a sudden and unfamiliar feeling of tenderness.

“Yes, but there are professions where failure is not so viscerally punished.”

“Easier to ignore the changes you make to the lives around you when you’re just poking around in a mind. Or making art.”

“Indeed,” Hannibal agrees, “so now I divert my passion for anatomy into portraiture. I still sharpen my pencils with a scalpel.”

“You said you didn’t use to favor drawing from life.” 

“Life slips from our hands too easily.”

“In death, we have control,” Will says, thinking of the intensity of Hannibal’s eyes on him during their sessions, almost imperceptibly narrowed when Will shifts or breathes too deeply. 

“Yes,” Hannibal says, then stares deeply into Will’s eyes, “but recently I have seen a certain charm in life drawing. Rarely do I find the unpredictable alluring.”

Will licks his lips slowly. Each time he talks to Hannibal, it becomes harder to remind himself he’s straight, that he’s always been and always will be. Even as he repeats the names of every girl he’s had a crush on, like a protective mantra, Hannibal finds subtle ways to turn him on—a few words, a gaze, a quirk of his mouth. He thanks him for his work and quickly absconds, some foreign thing taking flight in his heart at the thought of Hannibal finding him charming. 

* * *

The figure drawing studio is a broad, circular room with windows composing the upper half of the walls. The door to the closet and the entry off of the main hallway lie diametrically opposed, the path between them bisected by the table upon which the models pose.

Will relishes how the room is always bathed in light, doused white or yellow or orange, depending on the time of day. He's not much of an artist himself, but he appreciates the dance of shadows. Shadows dark beneath the table, shadows that take on rich textures when they nestle in the velvet tablecloth, shadows like skeletal structures cutting across pale linoleum when an easel gets caught in a ray of sun. 

Hannibal, in his richly tailored suits, seems like a part of those shadows, as if they were swept off the floor into a column of fabric. The dark lines of his jacket and pants stand in stark contrast to the wealth of light in the room, and as he waits by the modeling table for Will to get dressed, he looks like some kind of pagan monument, out of place, out of time, representative of immortal, unearthly power. When Will comes back out into the main room, Hannibal holds out his drawings.

"You can't just give me all your drawings. How are you supposed to get back into portraiture if you give away all your studies?" But he takes them anyway, like he always does.

Hannibal cocks his head. "I do studies from the old masters and sketches of various passersby when I go out. You're not the only one I draw." 

It shouldn't make Will as jealous as it does, but he finds himself strangely possessive of Hannibal's artistic attention, and it must show because Hannibal continues.

"I simply enjoy when you have my work of you. My most beautiful subject, holding my most beautiful drawings."

Will flushes. "You can't just say things like that."

"Why not?"

"You're so straightforward about it,” _and every time you compliment me I forget how to breathe_ , “Objectively, I'm not that beautiful."

"Objectivity and a direct nature are not the same thing."

"You're saying you have one, and not the other," Will says, more statement than question.

"There is no such thing as objective beauty, and I love beautiful things. I would not deny myself the pleasure of observing and depicting you for such foolish inhibitions as loyalty to objectivity." 

"It’s a slippery slope from no objectivity to no morality,” Will chides. Hannibal’s gaze bores deep into Will like he's searching for a secret or hunting elusive prey, and Will wonders if he already knows this.

Hannibal simply quirks a grin and motions for Will to follow him out. The studio is empty save for them; there are usually only three or four patrons and a couple models during any given session, and the moderator-slash-owner knows Will well enough to trust him to lock up after the hour is over. They walk down the hallway out into the fading evening light, and Hannibal gestures for them to turn away from the parking lot and take the sidewalk leading to a scattering of shops and boutiques.

“I will admit, I never favored drawing from life until recently,” Hannibal says.

“Prefer to draw from still images?” Will supplies.

Hannibal nods, “When I was a younger man, I spent hours at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence intent on copying Botticelli’s _Primavera_. The curators knew me by first name, as I did them. To translate a painting to graphite is never a perfect act, but all of my imperfect attempts only drove me to try harder and harder to render the masterpiece in my own hand.”

“Did you succeed?”

Hannibal turns to catch Will’s gaze as if they’re sharing an inside joke. “In a manner of speaking, yes. How excited was I to finally pin down beauty.”

“Pin down? You sound like those people who make butterfly cork boards.”

“It was not a dissimilar act.”

“It’s always seemed kind of… creepy to me.”

“To kill for beauty?”

“Isn’t life more important?” Will chooses his words slowly, carefully, “Than something pretty, or—or something that exists for momentary pleasure?”

“That which exists beautifully, however transient, begets life.”

“Even if it’s dead?”

“Perhaps because it is dead,” Hannibal says, and Will can hear the smile in his voice, “Man derives pleasure from being master over death. Why should that macabre pleasure not conflate with beauty?”

Will digests this for a moment, then asks, “What makes you want to draw from life now?”

“You.” And something about how simply Hannibal says it makes Will feel utterly naked, an increasingly frequent occurrence when it comes to their conversations.

They come to a stop in front of a quaint coffeshop. The exterior matches the interior, Will finds out, as Hannibal holds the door for him to walk inside. Exposed brick on the opposite wall, low-hanging ceiling lamps nearly brushing wooden tables and chairs, everything scuffed with the weight of years. Candles burning some sweet, earthy fragrance and a single barista engrossed in a thick novel. Will lets Hannibal order for them both because he seems like the kind of man who’s particular about these things, and when Hannibal sets a spiced tea latte in front of him, Will’s suspicions are confirmed.

“How familiar are you with the world of art?” Hannibal’s voice is low, like a forgotten lullaby buried in Will’s childhood memories, tempting him to let his guard down.

“Not very,” Will answers, “to be honest.”

“Come to the Peterson with me,” Hannibal says, softly.

“The art museum?”

“Yes. Are you free this Thursday?”

“I teach until four.”

“I will pick you up from your work.” 

“Do you take all your life models out on dates?” Will’s throat is dry.

“Only those who interest me,” Hannibal says, amused, “that is to say, none but you.”

Will nods, his nervous smile reflecting a mix of trepidation and excitement. He lets Hannibal take the drawings from where they’re rolled up under Will’s arm and spread them carefully across the table. “What do you think of these?”

He sets his drink down and contemplates. Once the initial shock of Hannibal’s artistic liberties subsides, he marvels at the work. Hannibal never fails to bring new ideas to the page and each time, Will is left both unsettled and inspired. He sees himself lying on his side with one arm holding up his head, but skinned raw and bloody, musculature defined with a doctor’s precision. Another where he stands turned away from Hannibal, weight shifted to one leg, antlers rising out of his temples and back like secondary limbs, the junction of skin and foreign bone depicted with frightening detail. 

Some versions are true to life, but even those are striking. Will sees the care with which Hannibal renders him, the gentle hood of his eyes, the jut of his chin, the soft meat of his chest. The weight of Hannibal’s attraction hits him like a brick wall. He’s the one physically exposing himself for these drawings, but he can tell how intimately these drawings showcase Hannibal’s innermost thoughts and emotions. 

Will should be afraid; it’s the only response he’s ever had to the prospect of vulnerability. But when Hannibal sets his own cup down and licks his lips, eyes on Will, all thoughts of running away evaporate, replaced by thrumming desire and a strange, fragile hope. 

* * *

“Don’t you look excited to go home,” Alana says, but she’s smiling as she walks up to Will’s desk, students still hurrying out of the class in a steady stream. Will is putting his laptop into his bag when she notes, “Usually you stay a little longer after class. There’s a new case we’re all struggling with, and I was hoping I could get your opinion.”

“Well, Dr. Bloom,” Will says, rather disingenuously, “a very reputable doctor told me I wasn’t cleared for field work.” He taps his temple in mock-self-deprecation. “Not very stable up here.”

Her expression lies somewhere between fondness and exasperation. “I know I didn’t pass you on your psych eval, but taking a look at some crime scene photos isn’t going to kill you, and besides, you’re doing better,” she pauses, speaks with a note of gratitude, “now that they’ve treated you.” 

_And they wouldn’t have caught your encephalitis without me_ , he knows she wants to say, and he’s grateful, so he smiles more authentically when he gestures for the case files. “What do you have to work with?”

“A really fucked up guy,” Alana sighs and says, “a mushroom garden, with human bodies as the fertilizer.” She hands the files over, opening them as she does, “Look. All lined up in a neat row and attached to IV’s.”

Will scrutinizes the images. “He wanted them alive.”

“Why? It would have been so much easier just to let them die to feed the mushrooms.”

“I can’t stay right now, but I’ll take a closer look at them tonight and let you know what I think.” Will tucks the file into his bag beside his laptop. “Do you want me to give you a call in the evening or you wanna talk about it tomorrow?”

Alana looks surprised. “One of your dogs’ birthdays today?”

Will gives her a _ha-ha, very funny_ look, and says, “No, actually, but Daisy is turning seven next Monday, so I’ll tell her you’re bringing Applesauce over to play as a present.”

“Funny. We can talk about it tomorrow. What are you doing today?”

“I’m meeting… someone. He’s probably in the parking lot right now.” Will is embarrassed by how romantic he made that sound, and Alana pounces on the connotation.

“Ooh, Will Graham, I didn’t know you dated,” and now she’s really grinning, following him as he takes off his glasses and walks out of the classroom. “Where are you guys going? What’s his name?”

“The Peterson. Hannibal Lecter. Can I—”

“Hannibal Lecter? Dr. Hannibal Lecter?”

“Yeah, why? You know him?”

Alana nods, “I did my residency under him. At Hopkins.”

“Huh.” Will meets her eyes. “Small world.”

“You’re going to an art museum in the evening. With Hannibal.”

“You’re making it out to be more than it really is.”

“Or you’re making it out to be less,” she teases, “I’m coming with you to the parking lot. I haven’t seen him in ages.”

Will lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Can’t stop you. What’s he like?”

“You’re going on a date with him. Shouldn’t you know?”

“All our conversations have been him trying to seduce me with drawings he’s done and discussions of relative morality.” Will leaves out the part where Hannibal watches him in the nude for an hour every week. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to deal with Alana having that knowledge.

“Did you really just say ‘seduce’?”

“I didn’t know what else to call it.”

“Seduction aside, that’s pretty much what he’s normally like.”

“All the time?”

“Well, I assume that since he wants to go out with you, you’re the one who’ll be answering that question.” Alana elbows him in the side. “He loves art. He’s trying to let you in.”

“Right as usual, Dr. Bloom,” Hannibal says from where he’s perched on the hood of his Bentley, right out front in visitor parking.

“Dr. Lecter,” Alana nods, reaching out for a handshake.

Hannibal takes her hand in both of his and presses a kiss to her knuckles. “Psychiatrist for the FBI, now?” 

“Only because I learned from the best.”

“You flatter me. I’m not even practicing anymore.”

“You’re not?”

“I’ve retired to pursue portraiture.”

“Well, it’s good to have pursuits to fall back on. You’ve always been a fantastic artist.”

Will coughs indiscreetly into his fist, his other hand pushing his hair back from his forehead.

“Is he usually this jealous?” Hannibal stage-whispers to Alana.

“I can hear you, you know.”

“I haven’t seen him go out with anyone for years,” Alana whispers back, “I think he’s making up for it in the jealousy department now.”

“Okay, well, I have a warm house with seven dogs who all love me very much waiting for me right now,” Will drawls, loudly, “so if you two want to go to the Peterson without me, I’ll be just fine.”

Hannibal slides off the hood and snakes an arm around Will’s waist, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “You wound me, dear Will. Alana, tell him how badly he’s hurt me.” 

“How could you be so inconsiderate, Will.” Alana smiles, then turns to Hannibal. “It was good to see you, Hannibal.”

“It was good to see you, too, Alana.” Hannibal tightens his grip around Will’s waist, drawing him flush against his side. 

“Have a good date, Will!”

“Bye, Alana.” He waves farewell, jittery from the ghost of Hannibal’s lips on his cheek.

* * *

The Peterson is in Arlington, a few cities east of Wolf Trap. Will's thankful class ended early today because they arrive just shy of five, the streets filling with burgeoning rush hour traffic as they walk up to the main entrance. Hannibal holds the door for him again, and Will lets him since he can tell he enjoys these small acts of chivalry, things like door-opening and a hand on the small of Will’s back, like ordering drinks and taking his coat.

The museum is a repurposed four-story townhouse, tucked in between an antiques shop and a Starbucks. The ground floor has the dividing walls knocked out, the foyer, reception desk, and gift shop sharing the same space. Hannibal pays the admission fee, adding what looks like a generous donation, and they each take a pamphlet from the informational stand in the center of the floor. Will pauses to stare at the large display promoting the temporary exhibition. 

“This is why I wanted to come,” Hannibal says, “I have been intending to visit ever since I heard they were hosting this collection.”

“Dutch Still Lifes,” Will reads, “ _Vanitas_ Painting in the Golden Age.”

“The Old Masters were familiar with how all in this world comes to an end.”

Will squints at the reproduction of a painting of a floral arrangement, trying to see the connection, but he’s never been one for art appreciation and has no idea what the hell Hannibal is talking about.

Hannibal senses his confusion and laughs. “Come. It will make more sense once you see the full exhibition, in person.”

They ascend the stairs, Hannibal a step behind Will with his hand resting on Will’s elbow. Each floor seems like it was made to house a small family, composed of a central open living space with the kitchen torn out, a bathroom, and three adjacent once-bedrooms converted into gallery space. When they reach the top floor, a display of Native American fishing tools catches Will’s eye.

“Can I check out this room for a second?”

“Of course,” Hannibal says, “The _Vanitas_ exhibition is just across the floor. Will you find me there once you’re done?”

“Sure.” And because he’s slightly intoxicated by how Hannibal’s been touching him, he cups Hannibal’s jaw and kisses him softly on the corner of his mouth.

Hannibal smiles. “Shameless.”

“Only because I learned from the best,” Will says, raising his eyebrows in a facsimile of Alana’s expression earlier that day.

Hannibal raps him on the side, dangerously close to his ass. “Go. Shoo.”

Will quickly loses himself in the collection, learning about the culture and history of the Patawomeck. Something about the practicality of the art makes it easier for Will to become engrossed, comforting as opposed to the world of theory and speculation that Hannibal seems to live in. He studies the nets and canoes and arrowheads, admiring the sleek cut and mentally taking note of materials he could use for his fly fishing lures. Will feels at peace in the room, like he’s part of a larger history, the immortal practice of taking what the river gives. Almost half an hour passes before he remembers that Hannibal’s waiting for him in the next room over.

The _Vanitas_ exhibition is more extensive than the Patawomeck collection, presumably more intensively curated, with still lifes from all over the Low Countries hung on the cream-colored walls. Hannibal is sitting on a cushioned bench in the center of the room, back to the door and facing the floral painting that was advertised downstairs, which appears to be the central piece of the exhibition.

“How was the collection?”

“I enjoy fishing,” Will says, sitting down close to Hannibal so their thighs brush, “so it made sense. Felt like I was at home.”

“How long have you been fishing?”

“Since I was young. Do you fish?”

“I used to hunt,” Hannibal says, as if staring directly into his past, “I still do, but less frequently.”

“They’re not dissimilar.”

“No,” Hannibal nods, “One you lure, the other you stalk.”

“The end is identical.”

“Same could be said for all of us,” Hannibal gestures to the painting, “death.”

Will takes a look. The painting is rich and indulgent, muted greens complementing the vivid white and red hues of the flowers, blue petals tucked discreetly in between. The vase and flowers emerge from a velvety black background, and the curve of the stems lends a slow, serpentine sense of movement to the piece.

“On loan from the Toledo Museum of Art,” Hannibal says, “Rachel Ruysch’s 1726 _Flower Still Life_.”

He angles the sketchbook in his hands so Will can see his pencil reproduction. Will is blown away by how quickly Hannibal has worked, the piece almost entirely finished within the thirty minutes he was away. He takes the sketchbook and his eye is drawn to the portions Hannibal has rendered in loving detail, the parts that obviously captured more of his interest. Will suddenly sees shriveled and decaying leaves, insects nestled in the petals, the pathetic droop of dying flowers, and understands.

Hannibal’s gaze is firmly fixed on the painting. “Dutch artists rejected religious subject matter once the Netherlands gained independence from Catholic Spain. Artists created for an increasingly wealthy populus, creator and patron alike drunk on newfound materialism.

“Ruysch, like many other painters of the age, created floral still lifes. She rationalized her obsession with beauty by hiding death in the crevices, a nod to the Biblical _vanitas_ ideal that all living things are mortal.” Hannibal traces the curl of browning leaves in the air with his pinky. “An alleviation on her conscience. That it was perfectly fine to indulge in opulence so long as one acknowledged its transience.”

Will sees the painting through Hannibal’s eyes. He sees the death and decay lurking in the margins and realizes how, to Hannibal, it doesn’t detract from the beauty, but rather amplifies it. “That orange flower in the bottom left-hand corner, the one that’s fallen,” Will points, drags a sharp diagonal in front of the painting, “it reflects the flourishing one in the upper right-hand corner.”

Hannibal meets his eyes, pleased. “Indeed. The piece benefits greatly from the presence of death. The desaturated greens bring out the bright reds and whites all the more, and the intense detail of the insects inspires the audience to deeply assess the piece.”

“But you said… it was, what?” Will asks, “A reminder of mortality?”

“A reprimand. A word of caution.”

“Then why does it all work so well together?”

Hannibal smiles. “Perhaps Ruysch was subconsciously aware of the illicit beauty of death.”

“Probably couldn’t explicitly express it at the time.”

“No. Despite how the Netherlands were a thriving commercial center in the early eighteenth century, she likely had to remain loyal to Protestant beliefs.”

“But you have no such reservations.”

“Why should I?” Hannibal covers Will’s hand with his own and grasps firmly, “When earthly beauty is so enchanting?”

Will swallows and meets Hannibal’s gaze. Hannibal’s eyes are searching him, sharper than any scalpel, boring into Will as if asking for his deepest secrets. He’s terrified. Partly because he’s hesitant to give them up, but mostly because Hannibal makes him truly want to. “It’s implicated so tightly with death.”

“Is your past implicated with death, Will?”

“I used to consult for FBI casework.” Will tears his eyes away from Hannibal, focusing on the still life instead. “Tracking down serial killers, busting into suspicious houses with guns blazing, the whole ordeal.”

“Why did you stop?”

“Didn’t pass my psych eval. They say I’m somewhere on the spectrum, but none of them really know what it is I have.”

Hannibal contemplates this for a moment. “Why did you really stop?”

Will laughs derisively, “I killed two people during my first and last case with the Behavioral Science Unit. We located this guy, Garrett Jacob Hobbs…” He feels himself become submerged in the vivid memory, only brought back when Hannibal gives his hand a light squeeze.

"I got there as quickly as I could, but the moment I drew the gun, he had a knife against his daughter's throat. I'm not a great shot on a good day, and the case had been haunting me for the past week. It took me nine too many shots to neutralize him."

"He killed his own daughter?" Hannibal's tone is cool and self-assured.

"Blood spewing everywhere." Will's eyes glaze over to stare into the middle distance, fingers flicked, mimicking the spray. "He was dead, and Abigail—his daughter—was as good as dead at that point. I couldn't stop the bleeding."

"The mother?"

"Fainted after the first shot," Will says, slowly, "Sometimes I wonder how differently it could have gone. But it feels like their family would have broken any way I want to play the scenario in my mind."

"When it comes down to it, there's only one true way for anything to occur. Sometimes the true way isn't what we hope for."

Will can feel his hands shaking. "It was so horrible, Hannibal. I couldn't scrub the smell of blood from my skin for days, just eternities of iron."

"Sometimes the true way is true because it is horrible. God has a peculiar sense of humor."

“If it’s his sense of humor, why do I have to participate in the joke?”

“Because you are human, and to be human is to be a vehicle of death.”

“To live is to be reminded daily of our mortality.” Will laughs darkly, speaking with a Hannibal-esque finality.

“And of our fleeting beauty,” Hannibal adds.

He looks from the painting back to Hannibal. 

“Will. How many people did this man kill?”

“At least eight,” Will says, slowly, “Nine, including Abigail.”

“You did what you had to, and you did it well. You stopped him before he got to his wife, and before he killed anyone else.”

“I’m always asking, ‘How could I have stopped him from killing Abigail?’” Will grits his teeth. “You said it before, I have a, a certain vision. That's why they called me in to be a criminal profiler, my imagination and my disordered empathy. Hannibal, sometimes I'd be Hobbs. I saw myself killing his victims, killing Abigail, over and over again.”

“You share a sickbed with death and wake up every day expecting a courtship with life.” 

"Not expecting," Will spits, "only hoping."

"You need not to," Hannibal says, simply, "Because of your affair with death, you were able to save the lives of countless others. You did a very good thing, Will." He separates their hands to bring his arm around Will's shoulder and draw him close.

Will tucks his head against Hannibal's chest shakily, and Hannibal rests his chin on his hair in turn. Hannibal’s aftershave is dark and woody, and all Will wants is to be completely enveloped in his scent. Hannibal murmurs, "You fear empathy with these killers not because of what they could do, but because of what you might. I fear nothing inside you, Will, and if I could, I'd have you feel the same."

"Just my luck to find a boyfriend fascinated with death."

"It isn't often we get what we deserve. If you're feeling receptive to some advice, I tend not to question it when it occurs."

"What did I do to deserve you?" Will laughs sharply against Hannibal's waistcoat.

"Something terrible, I assume," Hannibal says, smiling lips brushing against the crown of Will's head.

* * *

After the museum, conversation flows more easily. Will is surprised at how freely he begins to speak, even agreeing to have dinner and spend the night at Hannibal’s house after Hannibal promises to drive him back to Quantico in the morning for work. On the way to Baltimore, they stop at Will’s to pick up an overnight bag and feed the dogs. He names them to Hannibal and laughs when they all come to nuzzle against Hannibal’s fancy suit, shedding brown and golden fur on pinstriped cotton.

Hannibal lives in what looks more like a castle than a house. He takes their jackets and then starts to cook dinner in his massive kitchen, because of course Hannibal is an expert chef in addition to having extensive art experience and holding two doctorates. He pulls two leaf-wrapped packages of sticky rice from the fridge and steams them in a bamboo container, the air filling with a meaty smell Will can’t quite place. While he lets that steam, he stir fries a collection of vegetables in a savory sauce. "Bok choy, bamboo shoot, and shiitake mushroom," he explains, reaching across the island for a bottle of dark liquid, "with soy sauce, and a dash of oyster sauce, white pepper, and sugar, among other seasonings."

Will strays over to the dining room if only because it all smells absurdly good, and he needs to stop himself from plucking the food right out of the wok and eating it. The centerpiece of the table is a gorgeous array of dark flowers splayed out around a small animal's skull. Thin cut wood spirals up and out from its hollow eye sockets, and Will thinks the composition wouldn't look out of place in the _vanitas_ exhibition. In fact, Hannibal's entire house seems like a seventeenth century Dutch still life sprung into three-dimensional space, draped from corner to corner in the form of rich, dark wallpaper and sleek wood paneling. 

He turns when he smells the food and has to swallow deeply when he sees the man carrying it. There's a slight sheen of sweat on Hannibal's temples, and a few locks of his hair have come untucked. Will never thought he'd find himself attracted to forearms, but something about Hannibal's normal conservative dress makes any inch of skin seem suggestive. If he saw Hannibal in a short-sleeved polo, he’s afraid he might pass out.

“Cantonese sticky rice and stir fried vegetables,” Hannibal says from behind Will, reaching over his shoulder to place the plate in front of him, hot breath ghosting over his ear and waistcoat brushing against his back, “Eat.” 

Goddammit, Will thinks, ears starting to burn.

The meal, which is quite possibly the best he’s tasted in his life, passes mostly in silence. Will occasionally looks up to see Hannibal’s eyes on him, and he lets his own flutter shut in response, dragging his tongue across the chopsticks for a second longer than necessary under the guise of savoring the meal. Will has never been much of a flirt, but something about Hannibal brings out his competitive streak, and he deems his efforts successful when Hannibal averts his gaze and chews faster. Will barely even has to exaggerate his reaction to the food; when the meal is over, the plates are clean.

Once they’ve finished doing the dishes, Will is seized with sudden bravery—he backs Hannibal against the kitchen counter with thumbs hooked in his belt loops and presses their foreheads together. 

“Is this,” he murmurs into the inch of space between their mouths, “Is this alright?”

Hannibal responds by kissing him hungrily, like he’s a drowned man coming up for air and Will’s breath is pure oxygen. The slick taste of Hannibal’s tongue is even hotter than Will imagined it would be, Hannibal’s heartbeat alive in his throat, despite all his talk of death. Hannibal’s hands slide up Will’s back and hold him in a tight embrace, the closed distance between artist and subject, viewer and artwork. Reaching, meeting, melding. 

“I have wanted you, Will,” Hannibal says with a quiver in his voice, which Will relishes immensely, “since first I walked into the studio.”

“Possessive.” A long kiss, hands like burning magma.

Hannibal grips his ass and kisses away the small yelp he elicits from Will, “I have never known how to be anything but.”

Will thinks two can play at that game, unbuttoning Hannibal’s waistcoat and untucking his shirt to slide the flat of his hand up his torso, thumbing Hannibal’s nipples with rough pressure. He thinks Hannibal has too many layers on, and says as much.

Hannibal laughs and slides one of his legs between Will’s in response. Will feels like a fucking teenager again, hips bucking against Hannibal’s thigh involuntarily, kept close by Hannibal’s hands tucked in his pockets. He presses his leg against Hannibal’s crotch and feels him shudder beneath his hands. Hannibal bites Will’s bottom lip vengefully, then slides his tongue over the tender area as he rolls his hips forward to put pressure against Will’s dick.

“Hannibal, I—”

“Will,” Hannibal growls, “Bedroom. Now, please.”

His eyes fly open. He lets Hannibal drag him by the hand up the stairs, past a suit of Samurai armor and more vaguely unsettling gothic decorations, to his bedroom, deep teal silk sheets and pillows spread immaculately upon the bed.

“Your bed almost looks too nice,” Will says, watching Hannibal undress quickly but with precise motions, “Almost don’t want to fuck it up.” His speculation about seeing Hannibal’s skin was right. The sight of his well-toned body, limned in moonlight, is enough to suck all the air from the room in an instant.

“Almost,” Hannibal repeats, already naked and reaching to undo Will’s belt. Will’s breath hitches. He’s been nude in front of Hannibal so many times already, but never naked. It’s a different feeling, watching Hannibal’s thumbs tuck into his pants and underwear and shove them to the floor, his hands reaching up to undo Will’s shirt, the slide of his palms against Will’s shoulders as slow and erotic as the wet heat of his mouth. Hannibal goes to sit on the edge of the bed, expectant. Will steps out of the jumble of clothes and footwear on the ground and lets Hannibal pull him into his lap.

They’re facing each other, Will straddling Hannibal’s hips, and Will’s eyes widen at Hannibal’s slow, controlled roll down to where he’s lying on his back. The flex of his abs is hypnotic, and while he’s distracted, Hannibal jerks his hips up, and if Will wasn’t fully hard before, he definitely is now.

“You can’t,” Will breathes more than says, “come to the studio, anymore.”

“And why not?” The weight of Hannibal’s eyes on him is palpable, and Hannibal seems to enjoy that fact because he takes a long, slow look down Will’s body, lingering on the flushed parts of his skin and his dripping cock, watching him squirm all the while.

“God, Hannibal,” Will whispers, hands struggling for purchase on Hannibal’s chest, “do you see what you do to me?” 

“Yes,” Hannibal says, one hand on Will’s back pulling him down to meet his lips. Hannibal kisses him greedily, and Will is slowly getting addicted to the languorous slide of Hannibal’s tongue against his, to the filthy sound made when they break away. They kiss for what feels like days, stretched out and sun-bleached hours ticking away, the passage of time only marked by the movement of Hannibal’s hands against Will’s skin. Hannibal touches him like he’s trying to memorize the topography of his body. Like he’s learning basic anatomy all over again, hungry for more and more, wanting everything Will would give him.

“All of it, Hannibal,” Will moans when Hannibal presses his thumbs into the divot of Will’s pelvis and spreads his legs wider, “you can have all of me, please, I’d give you anything, everything.”

Hannibal growls animalistically and licks a stripe along Will’s neck, taking both of them in one hand and stroking tightly.

Will’s entire body is an erogenous zone alight with pleasure. He fucks up into Hannibal’s hand, and the sight of Hannibal beneath him, with his broad hand jerking both of them, is almost as arousing as the pressure of Hannibal’s dick against his. Will ducks his head and kisses along Hannibal’s neck, one hand fisted in Hannibal’s hair pulling his head back to expose more skin.

When Will pulls up, he can’t tear his eyes away from Hannibal. His crazed halo of hair, his red half-open mouth, his acres of hard muscle. He’s just as undone as Will is, and as Will feels the golden thread of pleasure that precedes orgasm spreading through his body, he savors the image, Hannibal’s utter lack of control evident in every strained muscle, every burning place where their bodies meet. “Hannibal,” Will says, shakily, “I wish you could see what I do to you.”

Hannibal groans, more feeling than sound, and comes hard over both of them. His hand assumes a more erratic rhythm, and soon after, Will is coming, too, soundlessly, and the feeling is like falling off a cliff for ages and ages.

He slumps bodily onto Hannibal, face-down on the cool sheets. For a few golden minutes, they breathe in tandem, their hearts beating like two parts of the same fugue, Hannibal’s arms wrapped tightly around Will. Will twists his head and pecks Hannibal on the jaw, just beneath his ear. That earns him a chuckle, and soon, they’re both shaking with silent laughter. They’re sticky and disgusting; he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Will thinks he understands artists a little more, just then. He understands what it’s like to want to immortalize a moment on paper, the selfish desire for an unspeakably radiant occurrence to shed its ephemerality. 

* * *

Afterwards, once they’ve showered together and changed into pajamas, they lie in Hannibal’s bed, Will resting his head on Hannibal’s chest.

Hannibal plays with Will’s wet curls and murmurs, “If I cannot come to the studio anymore, may I ask a favor?”

Will tilts his head to look at him. “Yeah. What is it?”

“May I do a private portrait of you?”

“In the nude?”

Hannibal nods, “I would pay you, of course.”

“Don’t need to.”

“I insist. If I am to put you in an uncomfortable position, I should at least provide compensation.”

Will wants to protest, but remembers how tense his body gets during figure drawing sessions, and finally nods. “There might be a problem from now on, though.”

Hannibal raises his brows.

“Of the, ah,” Will smirks, “sexual nature.”

“We will have to do something about that before each session, then.”

“Wouldn’t want me to get it up in the middle of you drawing.”

“It would pose an unacceptable inconsistency, yes.”

“And a distraction for you.”

Hannibal tilts Will’s chin up and kisses him, feather-light. “Did you have anything in mind, dear Will?”

“Maybe something like tonight.”

Hannibal threads his fingers through Will’s hair and presses a series of kisses to his face in response.

* * *

The weeks pass in a flurry of work, modeling sans Hannibal, and modeling for Hannibal. Alana makes good on her promise to bring Applesauce over for Daisy’s birthday, even helping Will make the homemade dog treats. After the celebrations, which consist mainly of the dogs devouring the meal, Will’s uncharacteristic overtures of affection, and Alana looking bemused as Will is tackled bodily onto the ground by the swarm of happy, well-fed animals, they head out into the neighboring woods for a walk.

“So, how was the date?” Alana asks, at the same time Will asks, “Any luck on the case?”

They both laugh, Will’s normal tension unwound in equal parts by the time spent with his pets and the warm memory of the night at Hannibal’s. “No, uh, let’s talk about the case,” he says, fully expecting Alana to pursue the date question.

“Uh-huh,” she smirks, “Because you’ve always jumped at the bit to get into the minds of murderers.”

Will nods, “You know me so well.”

“Obviously not, because I couldn’t imagine you dating anyone, least of all Hannibal Lecter.”

“Well, he’s good for me.” He tilts his head. “I didn’t think about the mushroom bodies all evening,” and then is taken aback when he realizes it’s true.

“He’s like that, you know. You never think about what he doesn’t want you to think about.” The dogs have discovered a pile of fallen timber, and so Will and Alana stop to watch them play.

“I thought about a lot of things I didn’t necessarily want to think about.”

“And you still say he’s good for you?”

“It wasn’t the same as how I usually think,” Will amends, “I wasn’t just treading water, I was… walking straight through it, walking on it.”

“Very Biblical.”

“Hannibal’s not Jesus.”

Alana shakes her head, “No.”

“He wasn’t saving me. It wasn’t like he knew all my sins and was waiting for me to ask him to absolve them. He was learning them, savoring them.”

“That’s what psychiatrists do, I guess,” Alana shrugs, “But Hannibal…”

“He’s different. More…”

“Underhanded?”

“Seductive.”

Alana gives him a pointed look. “Are you sure you don’t just feel that way because you’re sleeping with him?” 

“I think I would.” Will looks into the distance. “Sleeping with him or not.” He bends down to ruffle Winston’s fur, furrowed brow melting away at the simplicity of a dog’s love. Unconditional, unyielding. Far less complex than whatever he’s gotten himself into with Hannibal.

They’re in a thinner part of the woods, Will’s house still visible like a golden beacon on the horizon. He’s always had this, Will thinks. The unchanging woods, snow falling in a gentle blanket over everything, his dogs, his home in the middle of nowhere, himself. The sun’s quiet and tender resolve as it streaks the same path across the sky day after day, and the world beneath obediently holding it all up.

Will looks over to Alana, who’s taken to throwing sticks for the dogs and clapping when they bring them back, spit-covered and bitten. So now he has this, too, something almost like friendship. And he thinks of Hannibal, his exotic mannerisms and appearance, the way his smile appears at surprising intervals, his unearthly house, his broad and warm hands. So now he has this, too. Something almost like love.

Alana walks over to where he’s crouched. “Zeller and Price ran the autopsies today and it turns out all the victims had kidney failure. From the IV’s piping pure sugar water into their bloodstreams.”

Will thinks of his read-through of the case. “No, the sugar water was to feed the fungi,” he says, standing and wiping off his glasses, “and probably to cover up something else. Are you sure they suffered from kidney failure after they were buried?”

“You mean he induced comas to bury them?”

“Were you able to ID any of them? Did you find any history of diabetes?”

“So we’re looking for someone who could take advantage of their diabetic status.”

Will nods.

“Doctors, nurses, pharmacists.”

“Pharmacists, most likely. Change the dosage, lights out for the patient.”

Alana’s face screws up, “But why?”

“He saw their lives as… incomplete.” Images of Hannibal’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, Hannibal gently nudging him awake when they arrived in Baltimore.

“And he killed, mutilated, and planted them to fix that?”

“Fungi have the uncanny ability to fuse tissue.”

“He admired their ability to connect.”

“He was trying to keep his victims alive so they could experience that connection, even at the expense of everything else.”

Alana goes quiet, tosses a stick for the dog nosing at her boot.

“We’re all just trying to connect, Alana,” Will says, softly, the words dissolving in the frigid air.

She smiles at him, though he can read desolation in her eyes. “Thanks for your help, Will.” She calls for Applesauce, and the other dogs follow. “Come on. Let’s go back home.”

* * *

“Who administered it to you?”

“Alana.”

“I wonder,” Hannibal begins. “I was still practicing psychiatry at the time—I wonder how the outcome would have differed if you had been referred to me.”

“You think she was too close to be objective?”

“It seems your and her friendship may have posed a conflict of interest. Your mind is unconventional, but not weak, Will.”

“She didn’t want me to get hurt.”

“You don’t know if you would have.”

“That’s a chance you’d have been willing to take with me?”

“It wouldn’t have been chance,” says Hannibal, “We would have regular visits. I would learn to understand and circumvent any dangerous trains of thought.”

“FBI consultant and psychiatrist,” Will muses. “Naked in a different way.”

“Nudity of the mind.”

“Worse.”

Will watches Hannibal pause. “Truly.”

Hannibal resumes his drawing. His paper is larger than the ones he normally favors at the studio, several feet in either dimension, close to a half-scale depiction. He uses his full arm for the strokes of his pencil, likely rendering Will’s larger muscles. 

They sit face to face in what Hannibal tells him used to be his psychiatric office. Like Ruysch’s still life, the room is opulent yet laced with darkness. Despite the large window opposite Hannibal’s desk, the room seems to absorb all sunlight, the day softened by his jewel-toned furniture and walls. 

“Dr. Bloom tells me she discovered you had encephalitis in the course of your work with the BAU.”

"I got treated. I was in the hospital for a week."

"I believe I would have caught it earlier."

"I don’t doubt it. But that doesn't mean you would have sent me in for treatment."

Hannibal raises his brows at that.

"I think you like picking me apart. Winding me up and watching me go."

"Even at the expense of your health, Will?"

"Maybe especially then,” Will shoots him a look, “master of death. You like to play God."

“Not necessarily. Things should be killed only if their death is beautiful. I am an aesthete, not a comedian.”

Will looks away at that, gaze latching onto the cruel cut of the arches supporting the second-story library. Hannibal’s displayed some of his drawings, highly technical depictions of taxidermied animals alongside replicas of frescoes where sinners are being punished. The fifteen-minute timer sounds, and he stands up, lacing his fingers high above his head to loosen his back and shoulders.

“I apologize,” Hannibal says, finally, “I’ve unsettled you.”

“No. You were just being honest. Like when we were talking about the Hobbs case.”

Hannibal nods, “I do not think our ends should hold such a taboo.”

“Still. I don’t want my end, or yours, to come any time soon.” Will drags a hand through his hair so he has something to do other than look at Hannibal.

Hannibal moves his easel aside and stares at Will with something like starvation in his eyes. “Nor do I.”

Will turns to him and leans down, and Hannibal’s hand comes around to rest on his elbow in response. Will kisses him, slowly, surely, hoping everything unsaid between them can be conveyed through taste and the insistent pressure of their lips meeting.

* * *

It’s one of those rare days where he’s not teaching, unofficially consulting for the BAU, or modeling. Will wakes up feeling unnaturally light, the six a.m. sun filtering in through the living room windows and illuminating the mid-air dance of dust, lint, and dog hair. He decides that for all his newfound company, he’ll always cherish these moments of still solitude, rare occasions where his mind is completely quiet and the only emotions pressing on his heart are his own. 

Buster and Keats are already pawing at his bed frame, so he pulls on a sweater and overcoat, jeans and snowshoes, and opens the door to let the dogs do their business. He starts boiling water for coffee, and upon glimpsing the carton of tea Hannibal gifted him at their last session, adds more water to the kettle. Something about the sight of the tea on the counter makes Will grin absurdly, the kind of smile usually reserved for his dogs or a particularly successful fishing trip. The kettle hisses and Will fills two mugs, dumps a scoop of instant coffee into one, and fidgets with the metal tea infuser above the other, because of course Hannibal would get him loose-leaf tea. Will didn’t even realize tea came in things other than bags before Hannibal.

Both hands full, he nudges the front door open with his foot and gently places the mugs on the table on his porch. The dogs are tramping through the fresh snow, and Will watches them contemplatively. Simple beings, he thinks. Simplicity is why he started modeling, an escape from the fraught minds of the killers he used to profile. Delve into the mind of a good artist lost in their craft, and become similarly lost. Until Hannibal.

Will nurses his coffee while he ruminates on how much he doesn’t know about Hannibal. As someone who’s so used to understanding far too much about the people around him, Hannibal is a jarring change of pace. He can’t recall a time before their conversations where he spent so much time thinking his own, unadulterated thoughts. He’s not entirely sure he likes it. He’s not entirely sure Hannibal isn’t still unduly influencing him, wordless gazes and buried connotations changing Will’s thoughts rather than direct empathy.

But every week, Will shows up at Hannibal’s doorstep and the door flies open before he has the chance to knock or ring the doorbell, and every week, the sight of Hannibal in his rolled up sleeves and lightly tousled hair makes Will smile, involuntarily. That has to mean something, Will thinks, gulping down the last of his coffee. The sweet, sharp smell of Hannibal’s tea has to mean something. Hannibal’s hand on the small of his back, the way he takes Will’s glasses right off his face to clean them with his handkerchief, the hungry glint in his eyes when Will chews and swallows the dinner he’s made for them. Surely, it all has to mean something.

In the back of his mind, he knows what it means. He places the empty cup of tea down and whistles for the dogs, then gestures for them to follow him down the broad stretch of farm road. Maybe running through the sharp morning air will clear his head of the terrible realization echoing mercilessly through his mind, which is, of course, _I love him._

* * *

"Hannibal." 

He looks up from the easel.

"Do you think, if we had never met at the studio," and he falters.

"Yes."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"Something along the lines of if we'd still have found one another?" Hannibal finishes for him.

"Do you really believe in that kind of thing?"

"Not before you."

Will feels a smile spreading across his face. "Sorry. Model can't move."

"Even if we weren't model and artist. We could have been FBI consultant and psychiatrist, like you said. Musician and patron of the opera. Detective and writer set on chronicling his adventures," Hannibal muses. 

"In this life and the next."

"That sounds similar to a wedding vow."

"Maybe more than that."

"A promise that spans multiple lifetimes."

"If I could, I would." Will says, without thinking. He's been doing an awful lot of that lately, and hasn't regretted any of it.

* * *

Alana glides into Will’s classroom with an absentminded grin and a healthy flush. Will knows what that means. He keeps looking in the mirror and seeing it, barely recognizing himself. He once nicked himself while shaving because of how distracted he was by his own face, but then Hannibal took one look at the bandaid on his jaw and offered to shave Will himself, promising a careful hand, so Will supposes he can hardly complain. 

“You’re looking well these days.”

“Well,” Alana shrugs, “thanks to you, we wrapped up the mushroom case. Eldon Stammets, pharmacist, like you said. He was altering his customers’ insulin prescriptions and then kidnapping them when they lost consciousness.”

“I’m not sure if that’s what I’m referring to.” Will takes off his glasses. “What’s his name? Her name?”

Alana blushes even deeper. “She’s… her name is Margot. Margot Verger.”

“Margot Verger,” he rolls the syllables around in his mouth suggestively, hoping to make up for months of Alana teasing him about Hannibal.

“She rides horses. She’s very good at it,” she says quickly, “so, she’s been teaching me. Really, the hardest part is mounting.”

“Mounting,” Will repeats.

“Mounting horses,” Alana amends, pressing a hand against her face, “Christ.” 

Will blinks slowly and raises his eyebrows.

“You know, I think I liked you a lot better before you started dating Hannibal.”

“Mhm.” Will finishes the last of his packing up, slings the satchel over his shoulder, and jerks his head at the door. “Let’s go for coffee. You can tell me all about how Margot is teaching you how to mount. Horses.”

She swats his arm, much harder than necessary. “You’re awful, Will Graham, you know that?” But she follows him out of the classroom anyway. 

* * *

"My neck hurts," Will complains, if only so Hannibal will let him take a break and they can kiss until the minutes slide into hours. He's slowly gotten used to Hannibal's gaze on his naked body again, but a man can only take so much. Hannibal told him it was the last session, so Will assumes he can get away with a small degree of mischief.

"You'll survive." A faint smirk, hand briskly shading.

Will sits up without permission and slides into Hannibal’s lap. The easel is angled off to Hannibal’s right, so Will rests both his legs on the left arm of the chair, torso blocking Hannibal’s view. Hannibal tries half-heartedly to bat him away, but Will’s arms are already slung over Hannibal’s shoulders, and he leans in for a kiss.

Hannibal indulges him. He always indulges him. Will never tires of the insistent way Hannibal kisses, not just on his mouth, but in trails down his jaw and neck, finding spots Will never even knew were sensitive. He’s teaching Will the language of his own body, and he can’t get enough of it.

“Beautiful,” Hannibal breathes, and the flux of hot air on Will’s neck is enough to make him whine with arousal.

“I—”

“You’re so beautiful, Will, you’re—” he leans back for an agonizingly long period of time, eyes dragging across bare skin. For once, Hannibal’s expression goes completely transparent, and Will sees exactly what he sees: himself, trembling and pliable and beautiful in Hannibal’s hands, some ethereal being descended straight from the ceilings of the Sistine Chapel. His eyes are dark and blown-out with lust, and his body is haloed in sunlight from the window directly behind him, adding a defined edge to his obliques and creating the illusion that his hair has caught fire.

“Hannibal,” Will says, more prayer than name, more plea than addressal.

“Let me finish the portrait,” Hannibal says, adjusting the easel closer behind Will’s back, “with you like this. The lighting,” Will presses a kiss to his neck, and Hannibal shudders, “the lighting is impeccable.”

“Should I stay still?”

“No.” Hannibal presses their foreheads together, “Pleasure yourself, if you would.”

Will freezes, and Hannibal leans back in his chair for easier access to the easel.

Hannibal simply tilts his head back and blinks, suspends his pencil just above the drawing, drops his left hand to cup the inside of Will’s thigh. “You’re gorgeous like this. Let me watch you.” Absolute bastard, Will thinks.

He spits into his hand, savoring Hannibal’s momentary look of surprise, and makes eye contact as he slides his hand slowly up and down his cock, letting out a filthy gasp of pleasure and gripping the side of Hannibal’s suit with his opposite hand for stability. The sensation of his bare thighs rubbing against Hannibal's suit pants is strangely erotic. The thought of being fully exposed for Hannibal to see and record on paper has him involuntarily bucking his hips, wishing there was more to rut against than his own slick, callused hand.

He lets out each and every moan he would normally choke down if he was just alone in the shower. Will loves to watch Hannibal’s adam’s apple bob at the sounds Will makes, his drawing hand moving faster at each drawn-out vowel. He’s putting on a one-man show for a one-man audience, and he’s doing it so, very well. Will works himself slowly, one hand cupping his balls and the other wrapped tight around his cock, twisting his wrist ever so slightly on the end of the upstrokes, thumbing at the tip on the downstrokes. He develops a steady rhythm, relishing Hannibal’s eyes fixed on the hypnotic slide of his wrist.

Hannibal’s breathing has gone sharp and heavy, his typical clinical marksmanship replaced by frenzied gestures, energy imbued into the portrait with every stroke of his pencil. He’s crazy about Will. They both know it.

“You want to,” Will pants, “watch me c-come, watch me finish, don’t you?”

Hannibal jerks his head yes.

Will removes his hand from himself, shuddering at the loss of contact, and leans in close. He presses his naked torso flush against Hannibal’s waistcoat and splays his hands across Hannibal’s chest. “Well, you can’t,” Will says, sounding braver than he really is, “unless you touch me, first.”

Hannibal almost growls, an alien, guttural noise that sends vibrations straight to Will’s cock, his free hand’s nails digging into the flesh of Will’s ass and hip. He kisses Will, wet and desperate, then in one movement, stands up, carrying him bridal-style. He sets him down on the opposite chair so that they’re facing each other, and then kneels, pulling Will’s legs apart. 

Will’s cock slaps obscenely against his stomach. He inhales sharply upon seeing the hunger in Hannibal’s eyes, “Are you… would you…”

Hannibal responds by tucking his head between Will’s legs. He presses a smattering of kisses to the inside of his thighs, and it’s all Will can do not to thread his fingers through Hannibal’s hair and jerk him up so his mouth is on his cock. Will tightens his core muscles and waits, almost patiently, watching Hannibal tease him mercilessly.

Will closes his eyes and rolls his head back against the seat, trying to regulate his breathing. He wants to finish; he doesn’t want to finish; he doesn’t know anything but the sensation of Hannibal’s breath at his groin. 

“Will,” Hannibal says, “What do you want?”

“You, you, I want you, Hannibal,” he looks desperately into his eyes, “I’m so close, if you would just—”

“What do good boys say when they want something?” Hannibal’s voice is unbearably steady.

Will breaks, body humming at the thought of _good boy_ , “Please,” he says, barely a whisper.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows, open mouth inches away from Will’s tip.

“ _Please_ suck me off, Hannibal,” Will whines, “I need your mouth on me, please, plea—”

And then Hannibal goes down on him all at once, and Will’s words die in his throat. Hannibal’s mouth is burning hot and wet, his tongue swirling around the tender head while his palms lay flat on the inside of Will’s thighs to keep him open. Will grabs Hannibal’s hair if only to have something real to hold onto, everything else around him blurring in comparison to the sensation of Hannibal tight and perfect around him. He’s so good at everything he does, and Will is helpless under his mouth and hands.

Just when he thinks it can’t feel any better, Hannibal takes him right to the hilt, and Will feels his cock hit the back of Hannibal’s throat. Will moans, and Hannibal draws back and does it again, and again, and again. Stars flash behind his eyelids. Someone somewhere is saying, “Oh, o-oh please, Hannibal, please, please, _please_ , I’ve been so good, I’ve been so good so if you would just let me—” 

Hannibal deepthroats him again, this time swallowing around the tip, and the tightness is the end, it’s the end of everything, Will thinks, it’s the end and the beginning, light and heat and purity coalescing in this single moment, and Will is enveloped in the longest, hardest orgasm he can remember having in perhaps forever. He doesn’t know where he ends and where Hannibal begins. Everything has begun to blur. Will thinks he might be dying, or something beyond life and death, because nothing he’s ever experienced has been so perfect and beautiful as Hannibal Lecter wrapped tight around him, sucking him through his climax.

Through a half-daze, Will feels Hannibal slide off with a pop, hears him swallow his orgasm. Will grins lazily at that and pulls Hannibal up to taste himself on his tongue, and the kiss is lavish and wonderful. 

“Will,” Hannibal says, lashes fluttering against Will’s cheek, “Can I…”

Will looks to where he’s undoing his belt with fumbling hands. “Oh god, yeah, of course, just let me…” 

He helps Hannibal shuck his pants down below his hips and pulls out his cock from where it’s straining against his boxers. The angle is different, but Will’s a fast learner and Hannibal is not very far from climax at all, so it isn’t long before Hannibal is gasping, bracing himself against the chair. Will can’t tear his eyes away from the sight of Hannibal coming in hot spurts all over his nice suit, Hannibal with his breath ragged and unsteady, legs trembling because of Will’s hand.

Hannibal practically collapses on top of Will, and Will shouts in protest before he feels Hannibal grinning into his collarbone, and then Will is laughing, so unbearably and completely happy. He tilts Hannibal’s head up by the chin and kisses him, reverently, holding the lock of their lips like he’s trying to memorize how they fit together, to keep it in his mind for when he needs to warm himself on a cold night.

They lie there, tangled together until the evening sky bruises into night and Will’s back starts to ache. Hannibal pulls himself away and then looks down at his clothes with a grimace. The pants are largely unstained, so he tucks himself back in and fastens his belt, but the jacket and waistcoat are hopeless, so he shucks them off, leaving his wrinkled dress shirt on. Will rummages in his bag for his change of clothes, worn jeans and flannel that smell like dog hair. While he’s buttoning his shirt, Hannibal comes up behind and wraps his arms around him.

“Would you like to see what I’ve drawn of you?” He kisses gently behind his ear.

“I tend not to look at what the patrons draw,” Will says, sarcastically, then kisses the corner of his mouth, “but I suppose I can make an exception.”

Hannibal walks over to the easel and quickly covers it with a clean sheet. “Even when you are not with me,” he begins, as if in explanation, “I wish you were. It feels as if you are.”

Will walks over, rests his head on Hannibal’s shoulder.

Hannibal continues, “I wanted to keep your heart with me, inside me. Consume it fully. Wake up one day and find it impossible to disentangle myself from you.”

“I think that day came a long time ago,” Will says.

“Perhaps when I first saw you.”

“Maybe even before.”

Hannibal turns to him.

Will swallows, says, “Maybe it was written, somewhere. At the beginning of everything.”

“There’s only one true way for anything to occur,” Hannibal echoes himself, weeks past, “Is this the way you hoped for?”

Will links their hands. “I didn’t expect this.” He feels like he’s lost in an endless desert, Hannibal’s fingers cold water threatening to slip from his grasp. “I didn’t know how to hope for it. I didn’t know I was allowed to.”

“You are,” Hannibal whispers, “You are. You are.” He swallows, and uncovers the drawing. Will’s eyes widen, and he has to remind himself how to breathe.

It’s not just of Will in the chair—Hannibal has drawn himself behind him. The triangular composition is a mockery of the _Pieta_. Will is sitting like a wizened king, arms on the chair arms, feet planted in a broad stance, and Hannibal looms above him, completing the peak of the triangle. But Will’s eyes are fixed on his own chest, or lack thereof. It’s been cut open, strips of flesh dangling like some exotic flower. Hannibal’s arms are resting on Will’s shoulders, and his hands are holding a fork and knife, which are impaled in Will’s heart as if Hannibal is preparing to eat it.

Will’s hair is lovingly rendered, light catching on the edges like a crown of thorns. The lighting makes the image seem almost alive, deepening the contrast of Hannibal’s suit and face and outlining each one of Will’s muscles, organic things rippling just beneath the skin. Will can tell that the bold, unblended hatches in the shadows are a product of Hannibal’s work while watching him jerk off. The unrestrained energy radiates throughout the entire piece.

Will gestures to the gory mess of his chest, “You already have it, Hannibal. Not just my heart, all of it, like I told you before I’d give you anything everything—” he’s rambling at this point, barely caring because he knows Hannibal understands, “and I already have.”

Hannibal’s fingers are light when they come up to cup Will’s jaw, to pull their foreheads together, the closed distance between artist and subject, viewer and artwork. To think that it took falling in love with an artist for Will to see himself, to think his own thoughts, to feel his own heartbeat thrumming alive and real in his chest. As in the portrait, they gaze at each other like eye contact is the only thing keeping either of them alive, and Will knows exactly what Hannibal is trying to convey through the drawing.

Hannibal Lecter has a strange way of saying _I love you_. Will doesn’t mind. He has a long, long time ahead of him to get used to it.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! i wrote this fic for the incredibly self-indulgent reason of making hannigram discuss art history, thus combining two of my most favorite things. it ended up a bit soft, but i think there's a very tender vein in their canon relationship, which i guess i was subconsciously drawing on.
> 
> i referenced [this article](https://www.khanacademy.org/humanities/renaissance-reformation/baroque-art1/holland/a/ruysch-flower-still-life) for the art museum scene, and [here](https://www.toledomuseum.org/sites/default/files/styles/wysiwyg/public/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/1956_57_1080px_0.jpg?itok=mFl301y2) is the painting they were discussing. a couple of disclaimers—the Peterson is not a real art museum, nor has Ruysch's _Flower Still Life_ ever been loaned out by the Toledo Museum of Art, as far as i know. i made a bunch of shit up for thematic purposes, you know how fic works.
> 
> the title is shamelessly ripped from Mitski's ["Real Men"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EjYoldxFg14), the entirety of which is objectively a hannigram song. 
> 
> much love to my friend for beta'ing <3 where would i be without you responding to my one a.m. texts to edit my 12k word hannibal sex fic. we made it work even though there is only one braincell allowed on the google doc at a time.
> 
> as always, comment and kudos if you enjoyed it! i'd love to hear your thoughts.


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